


Revelations, of a sort

by roboticdragons



Series: Inky Reflections [7]
Category: Bendy and the Ink Machine
Genre: Gen, Loss of Identity, ho boy sammy is sufferingtm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-25
Updated: 2018-04-25
Packaged: 2019-04-27 21:48:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14434782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roboticdragons/pseuds/roboticdragons
Summary: Reality had opened up, and cast him into a dark abyss of nothingness.---------------------One last little Sammy fic before chp4 drops and destroys everyone's theories.





	Revelations, of a sort

**Author's Note:**

> Sooooo anyone following me on Tumblrdothell will know I already posted this, but completely forgot to post it here. So, here you go! Enjoy!

Reality had opened up, and cast him into a dark abyss of nothingness. There was nothing before the Nothing and no thought of what will happen next; there was only him and a darkness swimming with screams. They were his own screams but they weren’t. They were big and loud and ripping him apart but they were quiet, pathetic whimpers. A seething mass of contradictions. They surrounded him, comforted him but tore his mind into shreds.

Time had no meaning in the Nothing. No one slept. Did anyone know what sleep was? He had an idea but when he focused on it, it slunk away. So there was no way of judging how long he’d been trapped in the Nothing before a sense other than hearing came back. It was smell. A specific smell that wafted through darkness and into his broken mind. It smelt like sweat, pencil shavings and cigarette smoke. What was a cigarette? He might’ve known once, but an image wouldn’t form. All he knew was that the smell he was smelling was called cigarette smoke, and he’d smelt it before.

The next sense to come back was touch, of a sort. It was less touch and more control over his body. No, it wasn’t a body. It was liquid (liquid! That was another word he remembered) and it wasn’t his. His body was solid. Maybe? No image came to mind, but whatever it was it wasn’t ink. Ink! That was the liquid he was in. It was ink, ink was the overpowering smell that fogged his mind.

Ink summoned more emotions - anger mostly, simmering seething anger. Always bubbling just below the surface of a poorly maintained calm. He was always angry,  _always **angry**_  , and just the scent of ink sent that deep anger spiralling back. It was something he could latch onto, an anchor, a lighthouse in this dark ocean. Anger brought clarity, and clarity brought memories. Who was he angry at? The singer, soft-spoken, one woman of so many lovely voices. No no no, never angry at her. The janitor, young and clumsy. Yes, he hadn’t liked the janitor, but never fully hated him. There was someone else, someone he’d despised with every fibre of his being. He yelled the question into the dark, welcoming Nothing, hoping one of the non-existent souls would answer.

“ _Who is he?_ ”

“ _Who is the man I hate?_ ”

The Nothing recoiled at the question. It was repeated, over and over, echoing, changing, until the whole mass was overtaken with anger and longing, all crying out the same questions.

“ ** _Who is he?_** ”

“ ** _Who is the man we hate?_** ”

Someone responded, a slick liquid voice that did not speak to the ink, it was the ink. The voice spoke, and delivered the true answer.

“ **The creator.** ”

This was an answer, this was something solid and real and infruriating. They repeated it.

“ ** _The creator is the man we hate!_** ”

“ ** _The creator did this to us!_** ”

“ ** _The creator is the true traitor!_** ”

And he yelled alongside them, so joyous at this revelation, so grateful to the slick-liquid-voice for its answer. So grateful for the unbearable emotions pouring through the Nothing, more raw feelings than he could ever remember. They felt together. They were one.

In the confusion, the happy anger, one more memory was restored, a final gift from slick-liquid-ink-voice. A name.

Sammy Lawrence gained a semblance of a dash of a hint of an identity, and revelled in it.


End file.
